


Hunted

by allislaughter



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Eldritch, First Meetings, Kissing, M/M, POV Third Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28753329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allislaughter/pseuds/allislaughter
Summary: There's something out there hunting Deacon. Either it's raiders, a haunted mannequin, or a mysterious stranger with a gun and a musical sting accompanying him.
Relationships: Deacon (Fallout)/Mysterious Stranger
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Hunted

He licks his bottom lip and feels the sting of a dry split and tastes the metallic tang of blood. That’s no fun. A busted lip, on top of an artwork made of bruises, and a pair of shades in his hand with the left arm snapped off...

If he wanted to use  _ words _ about it, he might say that he’s in a  _ bit _ of trouble. Of course, using words is what got him into this mess, and they won’t help him get out of it. Not with those raiders hunting him like a deathclaw searching for its prey. With all the wild gnashing and growls as well.

And he thought his raider disguise was perfect. He has  _ no _ idea how they saw through it.

Nonetheless, he has to make a break for it if he wants to get away with his bones unbroken. Also intact. And maybe with his life. That’s always something he tries to make sure of: that he doesn’t die. But he was able to get a good idea of the layout before they caught on to his charade. There’s not an easy path out without taking a few of them down, and thanks to an oversight, he’s not exactly rife with bullets.

Yet, anyway, judging from the rattle of a Tommy gun somewhere to the left of him trying to take down whatever decoy they think is him.

Hopefully that mannequin won’t be back to haunt him later.

Now’s not the time to worry about haunted mannequins. Now’s not even the time to breathe if it means them knowing where he is. He needs a quick plan of action and a way out with his limbs and life all sewn together.

There’s another series of gunshots. He frowns. That sounded less like a Tommy gun, more like a revolver...

The air chills and Deacon’s skin prickles as he listens to the sound of that same revolver appearing randomly around him, sometimes distant, sometimes closer. A random pattern of either multiple people all firing one after another, or one person somehow teleporting around... One person hunting down every single person in the building...

...And it’s suddenly much too quiet.

No sound of weapons. No sounds of movement. Not even the sound of the building settling. A strange, unnatural quiet that he can’t figure out the cause of.

There’s movement in the shadows, and Deacon has a brief, embarrassing thought of “oh no, the mannequin  _ was _ haunted.”

Instead a man steps into his field of view, having found him like a cat cornering a mouse. The man, dressed in an oddly clean yellow coat, a red tie, and a hat shadowing his eyes. He tilts his head up at him and gives him a look that says one thing.

_ Run. _

Deacon runs. Raiders or not, this man is clearly more dangerous, and he doesn’t want to be  _ his _ prey. Especially given the body count that grows higher as he counts the corpses on the way out. All in places he estimated they’d be with the revolver shots around the base. All with more bullets than there should be in a revolver at that, but who’s counting.

Still. He gets out alive. He makes it where he needs to be, gets patched up, and finds his hidden spare sunglasses that so helpfully hide the bruising around his eye.

It’s only when he’s in safety, in the calm of the aftermath and trying to make excuses to procrastinate on writing his report, that he realizes that, maybe... just maybe...

That man had rescued him.

How? Why? Who? All good questions in a world with no stupid questions. All great questions for giving him an anxious, sleepless night as he tries to piece if he knows this man (nope), if this man somehow knows him (scary if he does), or if it was just happenstance (maybe). Could be the guy had it out for the raiders and somehow knew Deacon wasn’t part of the pack. Or maybe the man thought he was and was giving him a headstart to chase him down.

In which case, trailing Deacon to a Railroad base is, to put it simply, Bad.

He doesn’t make an excuse to leave. He just slips away with only a quick whisper that he  _ might _ have been followed, and then disappears out the way he came in case any teleporting strangers who saw him go in will know he went out and follow him to a secondary location instead of bothering anyone inside. With any luck, anyway.

He can probably get away with spending a few nights as a drifter in Goodneighbor. Switch it up with guard duty in Diamond City. Maybe Valentine will let him sleep over until he’s sure this guy isn’t tailing him. That’d be nice. They can gossip and do each other’s hair and everything.

...Something about “Nick Valentine” and “sleep” connects him to “bed” and then “Nick’s bed”. And of course  _ that _ connects him to a pretty little file he’s read through a time or two.

“...Oh, damn, really?” he mutters to himself in realization.  _ That _ guy. That man. That Mysterious Stranger.  _ That’s _ who rescued him...?

He feels a chill in the air as things go quiet, and he shudders.  _ That’s _ who’s hunting him down?

_ Not much of a hunt, is it? _

Deacon stiffens, calculating if he should risk turning around. That was. Not said out loud. That was in his head. The mannequin  _ was _ haunted.

The voice chuckles.  _ No, not the mannequin. Something far older, and farther beyond comprehension. _

“That so?” Deacon asks. “Now, I need to know for the book club, do we mean ancient mythology, or do we mean Hippopotamus Lovecraft?”

_ Yes. _

“Ah, yes,” Deacon nods. “The Odyssey and the Old Ones, love that cross-over.” He tries not to flinch at the hand suddenly grasping his shoulder. He’s certain the Stranger notices anyway.

_ If you knew better, you’d know not to mention such things in my presence... _

Deacon tilts his head, the most he’ll let himself do in lieu of turning to face the Stranger. If he  _ is _ eldritch, he’s not too sure he wants to acknowledge him more than that. “Well, you know. You  _ can _ teach an old dog new tricks if you try hard enough... Uh...” The hand on his shoulder trails down to his arm. “Soooo, not much of a hunt, you said...?”

_ You made it very easy to find you. _ The Stranger chuckles again, and the hair on Deacon’s neck stands on end.  _ You’re worried about your companions. I have no interest in them. _

“...And me?” Deacon guesses.

Silence. The Stranger turns Deacon around, and Deacon squeaks indignantly. The Stranger tilts his head up far enough that Deacon can see into his eyes— Those are  _ not _ normal eyes. Inky black with glowing specks of white, like a mini-night sky, constellations and all.

Deacon cracks a nervous smile, unsure what else to do. “Oh, so you— you did mean both. Is that Orion’s belt I see, or are you just happy to see me?”

The Stranger’s mouth quirks up in amusement.  _ I’m always happy to capture my prey. _

“Ohhhhhhhh damn,” Deacon breathes out with a hasty step back. “Alright. Okay. I see. Huh. Not going to lie, I’m not a big fan of being eaten by eldritch beings, but if you’re looking for a meal—”

_ Yes, I suppose you’d prefer dinner first, _ the Stranger says.  _ That’s how it typically works, yes? Dinner, a movie, getting to “know” each other. _

Deacon blinks rapidly behind his sunglasses. “As... friends? Is this you... trying to make friends? With me? I’m flattered, but, uh...”

_ Friends isn’t quite the term I was thinking of, _ the Stranger answers.

“...Best friends?”

_...Perhaps another method of conveying what I mean. _

“Huh?” Deacon flinches as the Stranger draws closer. “H-Hey now, what...?”

A mustache tickles under his nose as a pair of lips, soft and painless against his own injured ones, kisses him.

His face feels too warm not to be completely red as the Stranger pulls away with a smirk at him. Deacon stammers through several attempts at words, a few attempts at brushing it off with a joke, and finally stunned silence.

_ Do I need to make my point clearer? _ the Stranger asks.

“...Why me?” Deacon sputters again and waves his hand in uncertainty. “I mean. Again. Flattered. Why  _ me?” _

_ You’re an interesting character, _ the Stranger answers.  _ But working on that alone makes you no different than others I could chose from. Perhaps I could make my reasoning more known in time... _

“Is this because I said a pick-up line at you?”

_...Perhaps, in part. _ The Stranger smiles.  _ That said. What is your answer to my proposal? A “date”, and perhaps more later? To your comfort, of course. _

“Oh, none of this is to my comfort,” Deacon laughs despite himself. “Uh— Hell, you’ve got me curious. Alright. A date. I know a place in Diamond City we could go.” Where there’s others around to hopefully see him should this go south.

_ I will meet you there, _ the Stranger answers with one last parting kiss on his cheek. Deacon blinks, and the Stranger is gone.

Deacon feels his cheek and the phantom lips still pressed there and slowly fading away. He stands there in the open, stunned and silent. And then...

“What the hell just happened?”


End file.
